


To Carve a Capon and Eat It

by notkingyet



Category: The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: Food Porn, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:39:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notkingyet/pseuds/notkingyet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falstaff picked up his dagger, carved a bite-sized morsel from the bird’s breast, speared it on the tip of his blade, and brought it to Hal’s mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Carve a Capon and Eat It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Evandar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/gifts).



> Thanks to [aflyingmotorbike](http://aflyingmotorbike.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading.

It was a common misconception that Falstaff was a slovenly eater. On the contrary—his consumption, while conspicuous, was as artful as that of any courtier at a Windsor feast. He conveyed food from table to mouth with a choreography of his fingers that anyone paying proper attention would find mesmerising. And his bites, though great in number, were individually small and well-savoured. He did not wolf down his dinner, he simply relished it. The only point of contention was the sheer volume of food he chose to eat. And once one had witnessed the attention he lavished on each mouthful, one found it difficult to deny him the pleasure.

At least, Hal found it so.

He teased Falstaff for it, of course. Mercilessly, even. But it was an affectionate stream of insults, delivered with a smile. Hal was certain Falstaff understood.

If nothing else, Falstaff gave as good as he got. He taunted Hal for his whip-thin frame and offered suggestions on how he might widen his narrow waist. Hal let the remarks pass for weeks before he finally had enough––Falstaff suggesting that kicks from Hal's stilt-like legs would go unnoticed by any horse save the weakest of nags proved to be the tipping point. After threatening to let Falstaff feel his kicks for himself, Hal accepted Falstaff's offer of a feast.

More of a challenge than an offer, really. Falstaff claimed Hal wouldn't be able to stomach even an eighth of what Falstaff could put away. Hal leapt at the chance to prove him wrong.

They met not in the lists but in a back room of the Boar’s Head. The crowd was rowdy as ever this night. Most of them were occupied with a game of quoits. A few had heard of the bet beforehand and gathered loosely around the table that would serve as Hal and Falstaff’s battlefield.

Mistress Quickly emptied her larder to fill the table before the two men. Steaming meat pies, thick loaves of fresh-baked bread waiting to be slathered with butter, capons glistening with grease, a monstrous haunch of mutton, and many barrels of small beer rolled up beside it all. It was a poor man's imitation of a rich man's feast, but it was a feast nonetheless.

And yet, there was only one trencher. Mistress Quickly set it down in front of Hal with a curtsy and a knowing smile, then retreated.

"What's this?" said Hal, gesturing to the chunk of stale bread in front of him. "One plate for the two of us? How shall we tally the score? Or will we be sharing that as well?"

Falstaff winked. With a clever twist of his dagger, he carved a hefty portion from one of the capons and delivered it to Hal's trencher.

"Eat up," he said.

It seemed Hal had become the butt of one of Falstaff's jests. That wouldn't do. Hal quickly replaced his look of bewilderment with a lopsided smirk, tore off a bite-sized chunk of the meat with his fingers, and popped it into his mouth. It burned his tongue—he tossed it around his mouth with his tongue rather than spit it out, then swallowed it barely-chewed. Then another, and another, stuffing them in as quickly as if he were a starving beggar and not Prince of Wales.

"No, no, no!" said Falstaff. He grabbed Hal’s wrist, preventing him from tearing into another strip of fowl. "Savour it, Hal! Don’t gulp it down!”

“How?” said Hal around a mouthful of capon. He gestured broadly to the mountain of food. “’Tis too much for one man!”

“You admit defeat, then?” said Falstaff, a knowing twinkle in his eye.

“Never!” said Hal. “Only, we do not eat so well up at my father’s court—”

Falstaff roared with laughter. It was more than the obvious falsehood warranted, but Hal chuckled along.

“—and I am at a loss for how to proceed,” he continued. “Pray teach me how to fit such a feast in one man’s belly, if not by gulping?”

Falstaff raised his bushy white brows at that. He picked up his dagger, carved a bite-sized morsel from the bird’s breast, speared it on the tip of his blade, and brought it to Hal’s mouth.

Hal looked from Falstaff’s face to the dagger and back again. Surely he jested.

Falstaff’s lips twitched under his snowy moustache, holding back a knowing smirk. Hal could almost hear Falstaff thinking of new titles for his pet prince—sword-swallower, perhaps, or sheath. Hal considered knocking the knife out of Falstaff’s hand for the presumption, but he preferred being called “sheath” to “spoilsport”. There would be a way to turn the jest to his favour eventually. He need only wait it out.

Hal leaned forward and took the tender morsel between his teeth, never breaking eye contact with Falstaff. He chewed, slowly and deliberately, conscious of Falstaff’s gaze fixed on his lips. He licked them once he’d swallowed. Falstaff’s attention never wavered.

“More, m’lord?” he said when Hal was done.

“An’ it so please you,” said Hal with an easy grin.

Bite by bite, Falstaff stripped the capon to its bones for Hal. When all that was left were wings and drumsticks, Falstaff tore them from the bird and held them out of Hal’s reach. He had to stand to do so, Hal being far too tall for it otherwise. Hal made a little show of reaching for them before he pinched Falstaff’s midsection to force his arms down. This done, Hal easily snatched the meat from his hands, though Falstaff grabbed one of the drumsticks back for himself.

Next, the pies. Mistress Quickly had outdone herself with these, a perfect blend of savoury meats baked in sweet sauce. The scent that wafted up when Falstaff broke the crust was enough to make Hal hungry all over again. Still, he only made it through half of one before he refused another bite.

“Do you yield?” said Falstaff.

Hal vehemently denied this suggestion, saying he only wanted to pause awhile to slake his thirst. Falstaff obligingly pushed Hal back onto the bench and poured four cupfuls of sack down his throat. In less practised hands it would have splashed onto the floor, but Falstaff had spent decades perfecting the art of drawing and drinking, and he carefully tended the flow to ensure Hal swallowed every drop. At the same time, the second half of the pie disappeared down Falstaff’s gullet. It required remarkable two-fisted coordination on Falstaff’s part to make this happen. He performed the feat with ease.

Done with drinking for the moment, Hal sat up and reached out for another capon. Falstaff batted his hand away and took up his dagger once more. He carved another morsel, but instead of delivering it to Hal on the point of the blade, this time he pinched it between his forefinger and thumb and brought his hand up to Hal’s mouth.

Word of what was passing between Hal and Falstaff had reached the rest of the tavern. All but the most competitive patrons abandoned the game of quoits, and more pairs of eyes besides Falstaff’s fixed themselves on the Prince. Despite its size, the crowd remained silent in its anticipation of Hal’s next move.

Hal opened his mouth.

Falstaff popped in the portion. His fingers, slick with grease, brushed against Hal’s lips as Hal closed his mouth. The onlookers cheered as Hal chewed. He hardly heard them. What he did hear, or thought he heard, even above the noise, was a hitch in Falstaff’s breath.

Hal swallowed and licked his lips again. He didn’t have to ask for more; Falstaff had another bite ready for him. This time, Hal took Falstaff’s fingers into his mouth as well, sucking the grease from them and snatching the meat from between them with a flick of his tongue. More than a few members of the surrounding crowd whistled appreciatively. Hal caught a glimpse of Bardolph’s wide-eyed stare and slack jaw from out of the corner of his eye and laughed.

If only his father could see him now, Hal thought as he was hand-fed by his merriest companion. Even Richard hadn’t dared to be so decadent. At least, not in public.

He supposed he could have done much the same at Windsor, or any other of his father's castles. He was Prince of Wales, after all. If he ordered a servant to deliver the choicest morsels of the richest feast to his waiting maw, it would be done.

But Hal didn’t have to order Falstaff—Falstaff had offered. No, he had insisted. Perhaps it had been a jest at first, but Hal could see the look in Falstaff's eye. A merry twinkle, and something else also. Some might have called it lust, but no common wag or whore of Eastcheap could prompt that same look; it was Hal's and Hal's alone. Attention born of affection, not the scrutiny he received at his father’s court.

His father’s court served him because he was Prince of Wales. Falstaff accompanied him because he was Hal.

“My turn,” said Hal, peeling a strip of flesh off the fowl and holding it out for Falstaff.

Falstaff laughed and willingly wrapped his mouth around the meat.

Later that night, in one of Mistress Quickly’s upstairs rooms, that same mouth wrapped around the head of Hal’s prick and introduced him to even more indulgent forms of pleasure. His bony hands scrambled for purchase on rough sheets before they settled on the meat of Falstaff’s shoulders. The end of this particular feast came quickly, left Hal weak and trembling and Falstaff’s lips on his own, tasting of salt and sugar both. Falstaff vowed to teach Hal to return the favour. Hal laughed. Why not? It wouldn’t last, it couldn’t last, but he would gladly take it all while he had the chance.

For tonight, Hal laid his sharp-boned cheek against the soft pillow of Falstaff’s bosom and slept better than he ever had in his father’s house.


End file.
